


The Box Escape

by alutiv



Series: Magic and Science [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Content: Alcohol (Ab)use, Gen, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Grief/Mourning, Grieving!John, Mycroft Holmes is Big Brother, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>His hand on the cold stone, John remembered Houdini and his underwater box escape. He thought that if anyone could escape the grave, it would be Sherlock Holmes. But Houdini had trickery on his side. He had built in escape routes. Sherlock’s own words: </i>It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story grew out of the prompt "Songfic", and it is inspired by Jill Sobule's "Houdini's Box" (full lyrics in the note at the end). It has not actually been Brit-picked; please let me know if you catch something egregious.
> 
> It was originally titled "The Magician and the Box".
> 
> Now a [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083206) by the fabulous consulting_smartass!

When he was small, eight years old, maybe nine, certainly not more than ten, John Watson wanted to be a magician. He read every book he could get his hands on about the art of illusion. He was enthralled with Harry Houdini, the American escape artist. He fantasised about mastering the escape from the Milk Can, or the Chinese Water Torture Cell, or the Overboard Box. Sometimes, though he would never admit it out loud, he also fantasised about locking Harry Watson in any one of Harry Houdini’s contraptions, minus the tricks the magician used, but he reckoned that was just something little brothers thought about. Mostly, he imagined being locked inside the box and dropped from a boat or a bridge, emerging unscathed to the appreciative roar of the crowd. 

Eventually, his interest in stage magic faded away, his dream of becoming a professional magician as unlikely as his dream of becoming a professional footballer. Instead of a wand and a top hat, he donned fatigues and picked up a scalpel and went on to perform death-defying stunts in the name of Queen and Country. His grand finale of that act took place on a stage built of shifting desert sand and sent him back to London, scarred but technically alive. His heart still beat, he still breathed, he still walked, even if it was with a limp that no one could explain. He embraced the pain; it reminded him that yes, he was alive, whether he wanted to be or not. He meant what he almost said to Mike Stamford on that park bench; he was no longer the John Watson his friend knew. He was not the John Watson who had studied hard at Bart’s, not yet familiar with the true grind and glory that practicing medicine would entail. Nor was he the John Watson who had arrived in Afghanistan, not yet aware of how indispensable a regular adrenaline spike would become to his continued existence. 

Less than two years later, he was not the John Watson who limped through the park on a sunny afternoon, not yet acquainted with the mad genius who would bring all those necessary elements together to forge a new man, a better man. In his time at Sherlock Holmes’ side, John Watson was something he had despaired of becoming: a man whole and alive and filled with purpose. It was glorious, and like every glorious thing, it disappeared much faster than it arrived.

Now, he wakes each morning with the knowledge that the day ahead of him is a performance, a show he has done a thousand times. He showers, he shaves, he dresses in his perfectly presentable John Watson costume, and he leaves his cheap bedsit for one short-term job or another. His bland answers to his sister’s questions over the phone give her no reason to worry, no reason to think he has not moved on with his life, no reason to insist on togetherness neither of them wants. When Greg calls and suggests the pub, he goes, and he drinks a respectable pint, and he talks about anything but the man who brought them together in the first place. He is not surprised when the calls grow less frequent. He does not invite Greg, or Harry, or anyone to the grimy flat. He tells himself it is a temporary place. He stocks the fridge with minimal groceries. He neglects to hang any sort of decoration on the walls. He keeps the curtains drawn and lies down in the darkness, staring at the clock, watching the seconds tick into minutes, the minutes into hours. His chest is hollow and heavy with a weight he cannot bring himself to name. If he named it, he would have to remember, and it is only his determination to ignore the memories of every moment before he moved in here that allows him to get up in the morning at all.

Sometimes, despite his best efforts, he remembers things he would rather forget. Like a voice rasping out, _I will burn the heart out of you._ And the answer, delivered with just a bit of a wince, _I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one._ And, then, of course, _Oh, but we both know that’s not quite true._

He was not a part of that conversation. He had been cast aside, ignored but for the sniper who kept a rifle trained on him and the explosive locked across his chest. That day, there in the darkened pool, he was already hollow. Moriarty was right, the bastard was right, and it was not quite true that Sherlock had no heart. John knew that better than anyone, because the heart in question was his. He had handed it over whole without a second thought. So, in the end, Moriarty was right about something else: _I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart._

John’s heart cannot be breaking now. It already shattered when it went off the roof of a building with his best friend.

At its most basic construction, regardless of glossy finish or knots of flowers piled on top, a casket is simply a box. Its six sides and twelve angles enclose all that is left of someone who once moved through the world. John has seen many caskets leaving hospitals and battle zones, but he has seen very few lowered into the ground. He stood at the graveside and watched, and he wondered how that was even possible, given that he was fairly certain that he was inside the box, still seeking any sign of life.

His hand on the cold stone, John remembered Houdini and his underwater box escape. He thought that if anyone could escape the grave, it would be Sherlock Holmes. But Houdini had trickery on his side. He had built in escape routes. Sherlock’s own words: _It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick._

Sherlock was a magician, of a kind. He was always three steps ahead. He knew every trap door and escape hatch. It was too much to hope that his coffin was some sort of magician’s box. John knew that. He knew that. He knew that, but it was just so damn hard to believe.

Back in his magician phase, John tried to learn to hold his breath like Houdini had. In his early therapy sessions, and again when he returned all those months later, Ella walked him through calming exercises to silence the echoes in his head by focusing on his breath. Almost by accident, John discovered that what works even better is to simply stop breathing, just for a little while. He can hold his breath for nearly two full minutes, watching the seconds tick by before his traitorous lungs insist on taking oxygen again. By then, he is incapable of any other thought, and his pounding head reminds him that blood does in fact still flow through his veins. Then he sleeps, and he does not dream, which he supposes is a small mercy. Every night, it takes a little longer, this ritual that allows him to narrow his focus to the single sensation of not breathing, and then breathing. He wonders when the breaking point will come, what his own personal record would be. He remembers, vaguely, a story on the telly about a free diver who held his breath underwater for more than 20 minutes. He wonders if he could do that. He wonders if he could will himself to stop breathing long enough to truly lose consciousness, survival instinct taking over.

It takes a few weeks, but he discovers that yes, it is possible for him to hold his breath until he passes out, and it is the first time in months that he dreams.

In the dream, he finds himself back at Baker Street, sitting in his armchair, his eyes closed. He can hear a violin somewhere far away, but when he opens his eyes, the music stops. Sherlock is reclining on the sofa, wrapped in the blue silk dressing gown, hands steepled under his chin, his shoes up on the armrest.

John shakes his head. “You can’t sleep like that,” he says.

Sherlock does not move, does not give any indication that he has even heard. John rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks again, he is at Sherlock’s feet, untying the laces and slipping pale feet out of the polished leather. The feet are cold, too cold, and John’s stomach roils as he looks at his friend. He steps quickly to the other end of the couch and brushes an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead. Silvery-green eyes open, staring up at him.

“You don’t have to do that,” the voice rumbles.

John shakes his head. “There is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you,” he says. “I should have told you that when I had the chance.”

Sherlock does not answer. He does not blink. He does not breathe. John lifts his hand from the dark curls. It comes away bloody.

John wakes up gasping for breath. The clock swims into focus to reveal a stupidly early hour. The seconds stretch into minutes, and he does not move. The sun rises, light filtering grey through the curtains, and he does not move. The phone rings, and he does not move. The minutes stretch into hours, and he does not move. He stares at the clock until it blurs again, the air around him becoming water, a lake to drown his memories.


	2. Chapter 2

In the cupboard under the sink, the previous tenant left a bottle of scotch. It is not very good scotch, granted, but it does the job. The first time, it only takes a few drinks to make the rest of John Watson as numb as the space inside his chest and let him fall into dreamless sleep. The next time, it takes a little more, of course, and a little more the time after that, and then he has to stop at an off-license for a fresh bottle. He drinks too much, far too much. The tumbler drops beside the bed when John slumps against the headboard, the weight of his head twisting his neck at an impossible angle. This time, when he stops breathing, it is not his decision.

In the dream, he opens his eyes to darkness. His fingertips brush over silk and press against solid wood underneath. Inside the casket then. There is not enough air for him, let alone for him and for the body next to him.

“John. John. John.” The whisper is insistent. “John!”

“What?”

“There’s a passage. Go.”

From that first chase through London’s alleys and over its rooftops, John always trusted Sherlock to lead the way, to know every escape route, so it is no surprise to find that the great detective has a way out of what should have been his final resting place.

“I don’t want to,” John mutters.

A hand on his shoulder brings John’s attention to the fact that his shirt is missing. Of course it is. In this dream, why wouldn’t he be exposed? Delicate fingers trace the starburst scar on his shoulder. He lets out a breath he had not realised he was holding.

“And you wonder why I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t wonder.”

No. Of course. Obvious.

The side of the casket slides away, and the cool hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, pushing him through the opening and into cold water. He senses rather than sees the casket drop away beneath him. Light filters through the surface. He rises toward it against his own wishes. His face breaks through and air fills his lungs. There is a bridge above him, full of people. They smile at him as he bobs to the surface, then rises through thin air to float alongside the bridge, face-to-face with Greg Lestrade.

“Welcome back,” says the Detective Inspector. His voice is too loud, thrumming through John’s skull. “Wake up, John,” he says, still too loud.

John puts his hands over his ears and closes his eyes. Rough hands grasp both shoulders, the rounded corner of a mobile phone presses into his skin.

His head pounds.

“John! Wake up, dammit!”

John’s eyelids are heavy. Everything is heavy. Wasn’t he floating a second ago? The hot breath on his face smells like coffee.

“John!”

Eyes open. Head throbbing. Who opened the curtains? Too bright, too loud, too much.

“… The hell?” John manages to groan. “Get off, Greg.” He forces his arms to move, pushes the man’s hands away before collapsing onto his back.

“Oh, no, you don’t, mate,” his friend growls. “Wake the hell up. Now.” Greg’s fingers squeeze John’s left shoulder, dig into the scar tissue. His other hand is raised to his ear, and he says into the phone, “He’s awake. I’m hanging up now.” Indistinct words come from the receiver. Greg rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I wouldn’t expect any less.”

A voice from the doorway draws a groan from deep in John’s chest. “Ambulance is here. On their way up.”

“Thanks, Donovan.” Greg’s voice is gruff. He barely glances at the phone as he pokes at it to end the call. “Go on back down.”

“But-“

“Go.”

No sooner has the sound of Donovan stomping down the stairs disappeared than the sound of the ambulance trolley clatters across the floor.

“He’s over here,” says Greg. His hand is still on John’s shoulder, gently now, keeping him steady, keeping him from falling back to the mattress.

“I’m fine,” John slurs. He knows exactly how bad off he sounds.

“Yeah, fine,” says Greg, shaking his head. “Sure.” He steps away to let the paramedics check John’s eyes, his breathing, and bundle him onto the trolley. He kicks the tumbler, and John hears it skitter across the floorboards, under the bed. He watches Greg looking around the room, taking it all in. He sees Greg’s gaze settle on the bottle.

“Jesus,” Greg says. “How much… no, never mind. Don’t answer that.” He runs one hand over his hair.

The paramedics begin moving the trolley toward the door. John closes his eyes and listens to the blood rushing in his ears.

They keep him in the hospital overnight, but there is nothing to support keeping him any longer. Alcohol poisoning, accidental, like an irresponsible student the first time away from home. They give him the same advice he has given out to patients, hand him the same pamphlets he has handed out. He puts on the clothes Greg brought him and refuses to think about Greg left alone in that miserable bedsit, going through his dresser. Maybe going through the cupboards, too, looking for things other than clothes.

_You could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything that you could call recreational._

Well. That was true enough, actually.

John drags a hand over his hair. He needs a haircut. He grimaces at his reflection and turns away. Greg stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“Ready, then?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

They are silent in the cab. It pulls up to Greg’s house. John glances over, the question plain on his face.

Greg fixes him with a stare that reminds John that his friend is, in fact, a police officer. “You’re staying here for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

Greg shrugs and opens his wallet. “As long as it needs to be.” He hands the cabbie several bills, his eyes still on John. He tilts his head toward the door. “Go on. Out.”

John opens the door and steps out onto the pavement. Greg slides across the seat and joins him, closing the door firmly. John simply stands, his hands dangling at his sides. His jacket is at least two sizes too big, Greg realises. He puts an arm around the doctor’s shoulder.

“Come on, then. Let’s get you inside.”

John nods and lets Greg lead him through the door and into the guest room. It only takes the slightest pressure to guide John to the bed. Fully dressed, jacket still on, he curls on his side, facing the wall. He shivers.

“I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?” says Greg. He expects no answer and is not disappointed. When he returns from the kitchen with a mug of tea, the doctor is asleep. Greg sits in the armchair and puts the mug on the end table. For several minutes, he just watches his friend breathe.

John’s arm hurts when he wakes, pinned as it was beneath his body. He sits up slowly and lets the room come into focus while he rotates his shoulder through what passes for its full range of motion since a bullet went through it. The quilt beneath him is unfamiliar. So is the pattern on the rug that he lets his eyes follow. This is not his bedsit, then, nor anyplace he ever called home. He blinks, slowly. Greg is sprawled in a dusky rose armchair, a cold cup of tea on the table beside him. He startles awake with a snort and quickly focuses on John.

“All right there?” Greg asks.

John shrugs.

“Fair enough.” Greg glances at the end table. “You fell asleep before the kettle even finished boiling.”

John nods.

“Needed the sleep, I guess.”

John clears his throat and works his jaw. His voice is gravelly when he finally speaks. “Feels like I’ve been asleep for days.” He pauses, considering. “No, longer. A lot longer.”

Greg leans forward, hands on his knees. “You gave us a scare, mate,” he says.

John puffs air out in something like a sigh. “Sorry.”

Greg narrows his eyes. “For what, exactly? What were you… what were trying to do?”

John shakes his head. “Us?” he asks. “Who’s us?”

Greg just looks at him. “Who do you think?”

“Bloody Mycroft.”

Greg nods. “You didn’t answer my question.”

John rubs one hand roughly over his face. Greg waits. Greg can out-wait him, and John knows it.

“I was… I was trying….” He forces the words out. “I was trying to make it stop.”

“Make what stop?”

“Everything.” The word is a groan that encompasses all the pain Greg can imagine, and then some.

“You’re not alone in this. You know that, right?”

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.  
Nope. Friends protect people._

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Because you don’t act like you know that.”

John lets the anger boil. Ah, there is something, a feeling to replace the numbness. “What do you want from me, Greg? What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to go to you? Now? After… after… after….” The words die in his throat. He studies his hands, unable to look at one of the few friends he has left.

“Okay,” says Greg. “I know. You think I don’t know, but I do. Whatever you think of me, of what I did then or since, I’ve probably already thought it. I wanted to help him. God, I wanted to help him, but I just couldn’t do any more than I did.”

“I know,” whispers John. “I know.” Stronger this time. “You did more than you probably should have as it was.”

Greg grunts his agreement, then says, “I couldn’t have done what you did.”

“Chin the Chief Superintendent? I’d imagine not,” John says drily.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not what I was thinking of.” He pauses, studying the man slumped in front of him, refusing to look up. “You stuck with him longer than anyone else could have.”

“To be fair, we were cuffed together, so it wasn’t like I could just, I don’t know, let him run off.”

Greg cracks a smile at that, then swallows it as John continues.

“He did, though. Run off.” John picks at a loose thread on the seam of his jeans. “It took me too long to realise that he was pushing me away on purpose. That he had a plan that didn’t include me.”

“He always had a plan,” Greg points out, not unkindly. “And he pretty much never let us in on it.”

“I should have seen it,” John insists. He is going to put a proper hole in the leg of his jeans if he keeps worrying at that thread. “He shouldn’t have been up there alone. I should have been with him. I would have gone with him. He should have known that.”

Greg reaches a hand out, then draws it back. There is too much distance between them. “John, do you… do you honestly….” He heaves a sigh before continuing. “Do you honestly think he didn’t know that you would have followed him if he had given you half a chance?”

John looks up at that. Greg’s gaze is steady. John shakes his head slowly. “No. No, I don’t. But that doesn’t make this any easier to understand.”

“Who could ever understand anything to do with him? He was Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

“Good point.” John rubs the back of his neck and says quietly, “I did. Sometimes. I think.”

Greg nods. “Yeah. You did. More than any of us, that’s for sure.”

They are quiet for a moment, letting their respective memories spool, thinking of everything done and everything left undone and everything that they wish they could change.

Greg reaches out again, barely brushing the sleeve of John’s oatmeal jumper, waiting for John to meet his eyes before asking, “Will you let me help you now?”

“I think,” says John, “I think that would be good.”


	3. Chapter 3

The sun is bright in a clear blue sky, the kind of brilliant day that leads Londoners out in droves at lunch hour to soak up some delicious warmth before heading back into their offices for the afternoon. John weaves his way through the crowd in the park on his way to Tesco. His green jacket is a little too warm for the weather. 

“You’re out of milk,” he told Greg, shaking the empty carton for emphasis, “and I need to do something.” He watched the uncertainty cross Greg’s face, followed by a blink and a slight shake of the head.

“Of course, yeah,” Greg said. “Pick up some biscuits while you’re at it.”

It feels good to walk in the sunshine. It feels close to normal. So, it should come as no surprise to John that as he crosses a street, a sleek black car turns the corner and follows him. He ignores it for a full block before giving in with a sigh. As he turns, the door opens. He pokes his head in, both feet firmly on the pavement.

“Get in the car, John.”

“Go to hell, Mycroft.” The man is seated on the far side of the car, an umbrella leaning against the seat. His expression is calm, but it seems a little more careworn than John remembers. He cannot deny a little satisfaction at that.

“Get in the car,” Mycroft repeats. “Please.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “Please? From a Holmes? Is this a holiday I don’t know about?”

Mycroft grimaces, then rearranges his features into their usual placid expression. “Do you suppose we could dispense with the dramatics? The sooner you get in the car, the sooner you can be on your way. You wouldn’t want the good Detective Inspector to worry more than he already does.”

John sits as close to the door as he possibly can without closing it on one of his own limbs, keeping the maximum space possible between his body and the car’s other passenger. “Dispense with the dramatics, indeed,” he mutters, refusing to even acknowledge the allusion to Greg.

Mycroft taps on the glass separating the driver’s seat, and the car pulls smoothly into traffic. John clenches a fist, forces his hand to relax, and watches Mycroft stare out the window at the passing scenery.

John lets several blocks go by before trusting his own voice. When he does, he inflects as much impatience as he can in a single syllable. “Well?”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

“You said to get in the car. Here I am. I’m assuming there’s a point to this little… whatever this is.” He pauses when Mycroft drops his hand to rest on the umbrella. “Or maybe you just thought I’d like a tour of the city? You could have just sent me a ticket in the post.”

“You’re upset with me, I understand,” Mycroft begins.

“Oh, you think I’m _upset_ with you? No, you don’t understand anything.” John looks for any sign of emotion in Mycroft’s expression, but his bureaucratic mask is in full effect. No affront, no anger, certainly no guilt. Well, John expected that much. He snaps his mouth closed and looks out the window.

“John, I know this is… difficult,” Mycroft begins again. John covers the handle with his palm, considering the possibility of simply opening the door and rolling out into the street.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” says Mycroft. The brothers Holmes, mind readers both. “And even if you were to try, you would find that the door won’t open while the car is in motion.”

John leans back into the seat. He knew when he got in the car that he would be inside until the elder - the remaining, he reminds himself with a wince - Holmes brother allows him out.

“There are things that you need to know, and it falls to me to tell you. Believe me, this is not a discussion to which I have been looking forward.” John crosses his arms over his chest and glares. “And I am afraid that by the time you hear what I have to say, you will be even less kindly disposed toward me than you have been.”

John raises his eyebrows. “I really don’t think that’s possible.”

“I have no doubt.” Another long pause. The car pulls up in front of a building John recognises instantly, despite his few visits. Mycroft takes his umbrella in hand and steps out of the car with purposeful strides. John follows him through the main entrance of the Diogenes Club and into a room that John remembers well, and not at all fondly. Mycroft crosses the Stranger’s Room to pluck a bottle and a pair of tumblers from the trolley.

John clears his throat. “No, thank you,” he says, watching the liquor splash into the second glass, and then a third. Wait, a third?

When he looks back on this day, John will remember with crystal clarity this single second just before he noticed the man seated in one of the leather-upholstered chairs. He will remember that Mycroft’s voice seemed to reach his ears through water, muffled and slow, inviting him to have a seat. He will remember that he opened his mouth to refuse, but his legs clearly had other ideas, because he was seated in the empty chair before the words could come out. He will remember taking in the ragged trousers, the stained hoodie, the hands and face that were far too thin to be healthy, the hair roughly cut and bleached of colour, before finally meeting the intense silvery-green gaze.

“Hello, John.” The voice he thought he would only ever again hear in the dreams that refused to be subdued.

“On second thought,” John says, struggling to keep his voice steady, “I think I will have that drink.” Before the last word, he feels the glass press into his hand. He takes a slow sip, unable to break his stare.

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and waits, ignoring the glass his brother sets on the small table beside him. Mycroft steps away, sipping his own drink.

“It’s you,” John chokes out.

Sherlock inclines his head. _Obviously_ hangs in the air, all the louder for being unsaid.

John sets his glass on the table and flexes his fingers, taking in Sherlock’s quick flinch. John shakes his head and settles both hands in his lap. He considers his next words carefully, rejecting several options, before asking, “Someone going to fill me in here?”

Sherlock smirks at his brother. “You see,” he says, “I told you. He’s fine.”

“Sherlock,” says John, the name awkward with disuse on his tongue, his voice a warning that snaps the newly-returned detective’s attention back to him. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over John’s face, and his expression freezes.

“You can bicker with your brother later. Right now, someone needs to explain how the bloody hell you’re here, but I have a feeling that if you try to explain, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat before you finish.” He stands up and turns his back on his friend, ignoring the flash of hurt that crosses Sherlock’s face. “Mycroft, you said you had things to tell me. Start talking.”

“There is rather a lot to say.” Mycroft sets his empty glass on the desk. “You may want to sit down.”

“If you think telling me what I want right now is a good idea, you may want to think again,” John growls. A bare hint of laugh comes from the chair behind him.

“Very well,” says Mycroft. 

As he listens to the story, trying to absorb how very much he did not know, how much was kept from him, John struggles against the feeling that the air around him is turning to water again. He thinks of a box with a secret panel, a daring escape, a trick he read about but never even really tried to master. He thinks of the casket he watched go into the ground. He drops into the chair, elbows braced on his thighs. Mycroft pauses, and John waves a hand at him to continue, then sinks his face into both hands. He can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him and flashes a glare that freezes the man halfway out of the chair before closing his eyes. John breathes deeply, letting Mycroft’s words wash over him. When Mycroft finishes, John stays where he is, taking in big gulps of oxygen and listening to his pulse pound in the silence. In a moment, he will look up, and he will speak, and he will make sure that he really and truly understands exactly what the hell has been going on while he was grieving the very man who sits before him, alive and, to all appearances, at least mostly well. He will peer behind the curtain and learn the mechanics of an escape act that would have awed Houdini. Eventually, John will sort through the jumbled emotions drowning coherent thought at the moment, rage and relief currently duelling for control. Right now, it is all he can do to breathe and listen to his own heart and try to process the idea that his friend was - is - a better magician than John could have ever imagined.

**Author's Note:**

> "Houdini's Box" by Jill Sobule
> 
> The box sits on the bridge  
> The crowd is waiting  
> The chains are locked across my chest  
> There's no heart breaking
> 
> I've done this show a thousand times  
> This trick's so easy  
> As they lower me into your waters  
> There's no escaping
> 
> There's a secret passage out of here  
> But I don't want to reappear  
> I just want to stay with you in here
> 
> In Houdini's box  
> Close the lid  
> And tie the knot  
> Houdini's box
> 
> The clock ticks by the bed  
> I hear you breathing  
> I should be out the door  
> But I'm not leaving
> 
> I've still the scars from my last escape  
> I nearly drowned beneath the lake  
> Stayed down too long dreaming about you
> 
> In Houdini's box  
> Close the lid  
> And tie the knot  
> Houdini's box  
> In Houdini's box  
> Houdini's box
> 
> I'd take such good care of you  
> I'd brush your hair, untie your shoes  
> There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do
> 
> In Houdini's box  
> In Houdini's box  
> Seal the lid  
> And tie the knot  
> In Houdini's box  
> Houdini's box  
> Houdini's box  
> Houdini's box  
> Houdini's box
> 
> The box sits on the bridge  
> The crowd's still waiting

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Box Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083206) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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